


I Promised You Life

by Sperare



Series: Star Wars Verse [1]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Oral Sex, Other, Parenthood, Politics, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 00:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1407685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sperare/pseuds/Sperare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jedi Knight Erik Lehnsherr comes home to his husband after a lengthy deployment to the Outer Rim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Promised You Life

**Author's Note:**

> There was never any real chance that I wouldn't eventually find myself writing a crossover between two of my favorite fandoms. I'm far too much of a nerd for that. I did intend for this to go a little differently, though: this was supposed to be the first chapter in a longer work, but, once I had it written, it seemed more like a standalone that could act as the first part of a series. So... here it is. And it is indeed the first installment in a series. There will be more where this came from.
> 
> In terms of what you can expect from the crossover itself: though Erik looks a lot like Anakin in this installment, and Charles appears to be playing Padme's role, they won't be following the paths of those characters exactly. Stuff is going to be changed up. Same with the plot itself: it's a loose rendition of Revenge of the Sith, but there will be some obvious differences.
> 
> As always, all mistakes are my own. Feel free to point them out: at some point I'll go back and fix the stuff I missed or messed up. 
> 
> If that's all okay with you, then read on!

Jedi Knight Erik Lehnsherr loves his husband in all forms: with bedhead first thing in morning; when tinkering with the experiments that he so adores; on his back, mouth bowed open in pleasure and spilling out long, low moans; soothing the babies after a nightmare; and, yes, even when Charles is in a temper, snapping cultured, understated barbs at Erik. The Coruscanti accent and the things it makes Charles do to his vowels—practically sinful, the sound of it, and there’s been many a time when Erik has considered thanking Charles’ parents for spending so much time in the capital when Charles was child, despite actually hailing from Naboo. Even Charles’ complicated origins are something to love.  
  
But this—moments like _these_ , they may well be some of his favorites.  
  
“If it were up to _you_ , Xavier, we would cater to those who want to kill us.”  
  
Charles is glorious in his place within the Senate, perched high above the assembly on a floating dais: his hands are clenched on the durasteel railing, knuckles whitened with the effort that self-restraint is draining out of him. The flush of his cheeks—Force, it’s a pleasure just to look, to see the color played up by the dark red of Charles’ doublet, which is—oh, that’s a _delicious_ sight—buttoned up to the line of his throat, setting off the splash of color on his face. He looks good. Really, temptingly good: the high collar just _does things_ for him, endows him with an air of severity often made impossible by his sweet face, and, more importantly, those buttons are _metal_. The way they climb up the front of his chest, sliding with the cut of the shirt off to the right to snake up over Charles’ collarbone before ascending up the side of his neck—perfection. Working him out of it will be a pleasure. The trousers too—they’re a heavy black material, lined on the sides with red cording. Something to look forward to, this prospect of popping the clasp and peeling the trousers down, possibly while Charles works off the aftermath of this debate via a furious rant in their bedroom that will only end when Erik can no longer check the sheer lust he feels at the sight of Charles hot and bothered.  
  
Though, there’s an overwhelmingly good chance that Charles will forget _this_ debate entirely and rant at _Erik_ instead. Ordinarily, that might be cause for concern, but Charles is going to be as ready for a… _reconciliation_ as Erik is, and it won’t be long before he’ll have Charles under him, open and gasping, pouring out any curses directly into Erik’s skin.  
  
Nothing to worry about, really: Charles’ temper won’t last long. And, even if it does, that doesn’t preclude the possibility that he’ll direct that energy toward other pursuits.  
  
The Senate building… may not be the ideal place for that line of thought: sentients are, on a whole, woefully unobservant, and, in an auditorium filled with a majority of Force-blinds, the general public may as well be _sight_ blind too for all the good they are, but the stirring in his pants doesn’t feel especially subtle.  
  
It’s Charles’ fault, looking like he does. The view is _fantastic—_ and it’s been so long. The Outer Rim is in many ways a wasteland, but by far the worst aspect of it is just how damn far it’s kept him from his husband.  
  
“I would hardly call the negotiation of humanitarian aid _catering to those who want to kill us_ , Senator Frost,” Charles snaps, and— _oh_ , darling telepath that he is, has he somehow picked up his husband’s presence and decided to inflict a little torture? No—there’s no telltale buzz of Charles in his head, but, regardless, the way he widens his stance slightly, shifting his hips, and—just— _yes, Charles, the Outer Rim_ has _been quite a drag and it’s_ fantastic _to see you, and do you know that when you bend like that, it pulls your trousers tight over your backside? Go on, do it again._  
  
Yes, definitely too long in the Outer Rim. Normally, he can at least handle himself until they find a shadowed alcove, safe from prying eyes.  
  
Unluckily, there’s not much chance of that in the next few minutes: Charles’ teeth are sunk viciously into this debate, and, though politics has never been Erik’s strong point—the whole mess of it is ridiculous, too much waffling, when action is what is needed—Charles in his element is always worth watching. There’s some consolation in the fact that this promises to be a good show: when Charles widens his stance and squares his shoulders, it’s not a good sign for Frost. Erik’s seen that movement enough to know: it typically means Charles is digging in and preparing himself for verbal combat, with the imminent promise of settling into his stride.  
  
At this point, it’s better to kiss him and cut him off; concede to his point; or prepare for a long, drawn-out “discussion,” as Charles would like to term it, though no one with any measure of sense would call the concentrated offensive of logic in which Charles specializes a _discussion._  
  
“In fact,” Charles continues, “I would argue that a failure to provide aid to those who need it caters far more to the goals of men like Stryker than negotiation ever would.”  
  
Frost purses her lips, but, beyond that, her reaction is minimal. A native of Coruscant—though he’s heard she spent her childhood elsewhere—she’s as sleek and modern as the city itself, and that extends to her emotions—if, indeed, she has any. There are certainly a number of holonet sources that question the existence of any such humanity, probably not realizing that she could eviscerate them with their own pens, should she feel so inclined.  
  
“Negotiating with Stryker—with any of the Separatists—over the use of trade routes to the Outer Rim would be a recognition of the Separatists’ control of those routes, Xavier. It would be tantamount to a recognition of their legitimacy.”  
  
Charles lips thin pin-straight. Pity: it dulls the color of them, which ought to be a crime.  
  
Right. Not a good thought for a man who’s doing his best to affect casualness. Leisurely, Erik leans back against the wall, crossing his arms and smirking—just a bit. It wouldn’t do for him to be obvious enough about it for anyone to ask _why_. Though, it’s worth imagining the looks he’d received if he told the truth.  
  
 _I’m picturing those lips wrapped around my cock, exactly as they were when last the esteemed Senator sucked me off after I teased him until he was screaming my name._  
  
Someday, perhaps. Well, not _that,_ precisely: Charles would have his head—either of them—if he ever said anything that crass in public. Though, he might be more upset at the prospect that rumors of his bedroom exploits might detract from his political arguments than he would be about the idea of people knowing just how good he is in bed.  
  
He’s always been putout about that topic being used to derail him from politics in the past.  
  
Ironically, before Erik, there _had_ been plenty to talk about, as infuriating as the mere thought of that is. These days, the fuss of the holonet reports is why Charles Xavier, senator from Naboo and notorious flirt, appears to have put an end to his once extensive propensity for bed-hopping.  
  
Honestly, though, reporters: bunch of useless creatures. Always nipping at people’s heels, making their livings off the scraps of other people’s lives. Charles—brilliant, gorgeous Charles—is miles above that foolishness, certainly important enough not to cater to the likes of _them._ Too damn right that they shouldn’t be asking Charles questions about his sex life directly in an interview: and Charles does get _so_ displeased when topics like that overshadow his politics, and he’s proven himself unabashed in showing it.  
  
No surprise there: Charles is rarely hesitant about sharing his opinions. Always so articulate, intelligent—and these trousers are too tight, damn it. But—no, no, that’s a solid _no_ to an erection in the Senate building, he will _not_.  
  
Hmm. Think of Frost. That’ll kill it good and quick—like fucking a block of ice—and, anyway, Charles is about to rip her apart.  
  
“On the contrary, Senator,” Charles fires back, watching her through eyes that ought to be classified as a lethal weapon, “ _all_ it would recognize is that they control those trade routes: and if control of trade routes made for a galactically recognized government, then the Hutts would have long ago been recognized by the Republic as a legitimate political entity.”  
  
The titter of scattered laughter that ripples through the crowd is enough to visibly affect Emma: she narrows her eyes and clenches her lips to match Charles’ expression, probably imagining all the ways she’d like to disembowel him. It would almost be a pleasure to see her try: she’s likely not counting on Charles having learned a few things from his Jedi husband.  
  
Combat related things. Not… _other_ things. Those too, of course, but never in a context he’d share with Frost.  
  
Right. He _really_ needs Charles to finish up. The debate that is—not—oh, Force damn it, forget it: when he’s this far gone, his mind is condemned to a miasma of sex and lust until his husband gets his ass out of the senate and does something about it.  
  
“With all due respect to both parties, I think it would be prudent to let the matter rest for the evening.”  
  
What—?  
  
 _Shaw._  
  
As much of a blessing as it would be for these proceedings to end, even that much-longed for cessation cannot possibly justify the entrance of this scum that passes for a lifeform. It’s entirely against the Jedi Code to be this emotionally affected by distaste for another person, but, at this point, the Council should count themselves lucky that Erik is expressing his distaste by digging his fingers down into the flesh of his own arms, rather than into Shaw’s neck. Disgusting, smug bastard, with an oily smile that _should_ warn any functioning sentient to distrust every word he says, but, instead, said life forms _elected_ him. And then, once that had happened, his peers promoted him to Supreme Chancellor.  
  
If that’s not proof that the vast majority of sentients in the galaxy are useless lumps of matter, then sufficient proof will never exist.  
  
In Charles’ case, of course, the later is the functioning theory: Charles will continue to insist in the merit of all life forms until said lifeforms have finally burned the galaxy to ash, and, even then, he’d likely still find some way to keep on hoping.  
  
Oh, Charles. Charles, Charles. It’s—no, don’t—oh, _kriff_ it, let them see. If they wonder why he’s smiling for no reason, they can ask—and he can sufficiently terrify them into withdrawing the inquiry. Because… Charles is something to smile about. And, really, it’s so lucky that, as ridiculous as Charles’ views sometimes are, they’re also completely endearing. That fervent look when he’s making his point, insisting _but, Erik, even if they’re wrong, they have the right to be heard—_ it’s stunning, and captivating, and from the time Erik was a ten-year-old boy on Tatooine meeting a seven-year-old Charles for the first time, he’s been caught up in the man—boy, back then—delivering the ideas, if not the ideas themselves.  
  
He’s caught up in that earnestness _now_ , as Charles respectfully straightens up, disengaging his mental weaponry from its lock on Emma Frost—because Charles’ mind is, in more ways that one, a weapon—and transferring his attention to Shaw. Best follow his husband’s example and straighten up as well, push off the wall: there, that’s a better view down toward the Senate arena—because this, right now, this is something that shouldn’t be missed.  
  
Charles is always worth watching, but Shaw—Force only knows when that man is going to weave something lethal into his speech. Having him this close to Charles, controlled environment or not—triggers something unpleasant in the gut, not altogether unlike the stomach flu.  
  
 _“_ We’ll call for a vote in the morning,” Shaw announces easily. The Senate could, theoretically, override him, if two-thirds were to call for it, but it’s been a very long time since anyone challenged Shaw like that.  
  
Charles is quite clearly not pleased by the decision, but he says nothing, though it would be well within his rights: there’s something alarming about the fact that Shaw has essentially just called an end to a debate in order to prevent his wife from being trounced. If there had been any subtlety about it, it might have been tolerable, but nothing about what Shaw just did was particularly disguised—yet no one is making any sort of contestation. Charles _could_ —but in a setting where no one would dare support him, it isn’t worth it. Erik may not know much about politics, but it’s a fairly obvious fact that a senator can only afford to appear ineffectual and unsupported so many times before his career tends to take a nosedive.  
  
Charles, though he may not like it, has learned to pick his battles.  
  
“Chancellor,” he acknowledges stiffly, offering Shaw a very, _very_ shallow bow.  
  
Erik snorts softly under his breath.  
  
Shaw doesn’t miss the implicit insult: the smile that he directs toward Charles is a brittle one, filled with thorns, but he refrains from commenting further, drawing his dais back away from the center of the room as the assembly begins to break up for the day. With the chaos of movement, he’s quickly lost in the flurry as the members of the senate hurry to disembark from their platforms and leave to terrorize the city with their silver tongues in other—in the cases of many of them, less legal—ways.  
  
Charles, too, is lost in the motions. Not acceptable: months in the Outer Rim, just to lose sight of his husband now that he’s finally home? No. But—Charles is never quite out of his reach, and he quickly recovers himself and turns away from the arena, hurrying off around the upper level of the Senate until he reaches the door, where he can slip, unobstructed, into the hallway. Such a nice hallway it is too, with plenty of pillars that he can linger behind, just until his husband passes by his hiding spot.  
  
It doesn’t take long: Charles is in a huff, and, though he’s outwardly the picture of self-possession, his stride is a little too hurried, and his posture far too stiff for anything like actual serenity. But that’s all right: his mood means that he hasn’t stayed to talk, and that’s cause to be thankful.  
  
Despite Charles’ quick gate, he’s easy enough to catch for anyone with a longer stride, and Erik slips out from behind the pillar directly after Charles has passed, eating up the distance between them with quick slices of his legs: he pulls even with Charles, and, tamping down on a grin—and more so on the bolt of anticipation that sears through his gut—knocks into his shoulder.  
  
Charles stumbles, but already he’s turning, eyes wide with contrition—bless him, always so ready with his manners—to apologize. “Oh, my friend, I’m sor—“  
  
The rest of his words never make it past his suddenly very wide, gaping mouth.  
  
There’s something particularly dreadful in watching Charles’ face whiten: it’s been a long trip to the Outer Rim, yes, but, damn it, he’s not dead _yet_ —brushes with death notwithstanding—and it starts up an uncomfortable itch over his skin to see Charles regard him with the same sort of shock and surprise usually reserved for ghost sightings.  
  
“Senator Xavier,” he greets calmly, though he can feel his mouth twitching to the side in a half-smile, and there’s that pounding in his chest that nearly pushes him forward, right here, right now, bystanders be damned. This is _Charles_. “It’s good to see you.”  
  
Surely Charles wouldn’t cuss him out right here? Might as well: he’s not managing particularly well at ensuring no one has cause to talk. There’s no reason a senator’s face should flicker from shocked to relieved to enraged to—oh, by the Force, he cannot be about to cry, that’s completely unacceptable, Charles should never be made to cry, never—  
  
 _[You right bloody bastard: I’m not going to_ cry _—I’m going to_ punch _you. There was talk that you’d disappeared, that—you—I worried that you were_ dead, _you asshole, and couldn’t you have sent me a message to tell me_ otherwise _, you ridiculous, selfish_ — _]_  
  
Temper. Temper is good. He can deal with temper, when it’s really only a manifestation of worry. Putting Charles through this is never desirable, but at least it’s fixable, and, _of course_ he’d wanted to call, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to send a transmission. _[You know better than to listen to the holonet. And I couldn’t send off any messages until we were back in Republic space, lest they be intercepted and—]_ Not important. Not important when Charles is looking at him like he’s the most beautiful thing in existence—which is oddly impressive when he’s still teetering on the brink of landing a good blow to the nearest bit of skin that he can reach. That… would be unpleasant, and, on that note, time to wrap this up and find a place where they can honestly talk. Alone. And… other things. [ _Suffice to say, we didn’t make many friends over Mygeeto, and the suppression of the Separatist forces wasn’t complete: enough of them fled the battle that it was a genuine worry that they could have been tracking us, trying to triangulate our position based on any transmissions they could intercept.]_  
  
 _[And you couldn’t have called from Mygeeto itself?!]_ But the edge of Charles’ mental tone is dulling, and the softening in his eyes suggests that Erik has already begun to be forgiven.  
  
 _[I_ did. _]_  
  
 _[Three weeks ago! Anything could have happened in three weeks, you could have been killed—]_  
  
Oh. Oh, Charles. This—the anger had been bad, but the anguish in Charles’ thoughts is intolerable. To hell with the Jedi and their rules on attachment, to hell with _everything_ : Charles should never have to feel like this. He’s too good, too easily hurt, too—too much of everything perfect, and life should never have a chance to harm him.  
  
But it never changes.  
  
Always, it’s this ridiculous farce, whereas a properly married couple—no. That’s—they _are_ properly married, but it’s just—if—if things were different, he could wrap Charles up in his arms, give his husband the greeting that he deserves after months of separation, public hallway or not.  
  
Instead, it’s this pathetic pittance: “If you have a moment, Senator,” he tells Charles evenly, nodding in the direction of a side hall, “there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”  
  
A flash of emotion explodes in Charles’ eyes, but its pushed down ruthlessly before it becomes anything more, and, after a quick twitch of his mouth, Charles pulls himself entirely into check and offers his own measured nod in reply. “Of course, Knight Lehnsherr.”  
  
Yes, knight. It _should_ be master, by all reasonable standards. Really, he ought to care far more than he does about that—about many things, actually: such a lack of care does wonders for convincing everyone that he’s one step from the Dark Side. Funny, that: most of the idiots in higher command are disturbed by precisely how little regard he has for his own rank. It’s probably the only part of the Jedi mindset that he’s ever embraced, and he’s done it too well for the Council’s liking: don’t covet promotion, but, please, care enough so as to tow the line.  
  
No, thank you.  
  
Speaking of what’s socially acceptable, there was never much hope that they’d make it to anywhere remotely conventional before they essentially toss all caution to the wind. But isn’t this his due? Isn’t he entitled to a good welcome home from his husband?  
  
As it turns out, Charles appears to think so.  
  
As soon as they turn the corner into a relatively low-traffic hallway, Charles rakes his gaze over the area, and, noting its momentary emptiness, slams his hand onto the sensor pad next to one of the doors. The door immediately jumps back with a hiss of compression, though Charles is already dragging him through it before it’s fully opened. If anyone _had_ been on his way down the hallway, there’s a good chance he’d have been treated to the sight of a strangely bothered-looking senator hauling a Jedi into a deserted conference room by the front of his robes.  
  
It’s bizarrely hot when Charles does this: this endearing attempt at manhandling, when, really, Erik could incapacitate him—lightsaber or not—in under five seconds. This physical pushiness—it’s a bit like a mooka attempting to bully a rancor. It’s sweet.  
  
“You horrible sod, I was _terrified_ , and the _children_ —“  
  
One hard push from Charles, and he slams back into the table in the middle of the room. Must be a space for politicking, where the senators sit and talk around the issues, getting nothing done—except _his_ senator. Charles looks to be very keen indeed to get something done.  
  
“Every _kriffing_ night, and I couldn’t tell them where their daddy was—couldn’t—“ A sharp, harsh exhale that rattles all the way down to his chest and vibrates out, leaving Charles shaking.  
  
He’s _shaking_. Charles was _—is_ —honestly terrified, by the looks of it: round, watery blue eyes that practically scream _your fault your fault your fault_. That wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Charles should know by now, sometimes calling just isn’t possible. But—  
  
What if it were Charles? What if Charles were on the front lines, and he went weeks without calling, and all that could be done was to sit at home and marinate in worry?  
  
“I’m sorry.” The words aren’t worth much, but it’s something, apparently: Charles’ face softens the barest amount, and, when Erik raises a hand to cup his face, drawing Charles closer with a hand on his hip, Charles leans into the touch, sighing out a shaky breath that’s dangerously close to a sob. “I’m here _now_ ,” he murmurs, dipping his hand down around behind Charles and settling it at the small of his back.  
  
All of that combined—it might as well be the match to an explosive: entire starfighters have gone up with less flame than the spark in Charles’ gaze. He throws himself forward, slamming Erik uncomfortably into the table again, bending him backward until he scoots up on the surface, making way for Charles to crawl up over him and—Charles’ arms collapse, carrying his body downward onto Erik’s and forcing the air from Erik’s lungs.  
  
“Charles, I’m _here_. It’s all right.”  
  
Here, yes, but completely at a loss for what to do when Charles finally gives in and dissolves into hitched breathes and a level of shaking that’s frankly alarming. Emotionally, he’s never been the most competent person, and loving Charles doesn’t make up for the years he’s been taught to suppress his emotion. There was his mother, and then there was—nothing. And now there’s Charles.  
  
Charles, who is an entity all his own, who loves openly and effusively, and who could never imagine any reason why he should hold that back.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says again, because it bears repeating.  
  
It’s unforgivable. Totally and completely. But—Force, was there anything that could have gone differently? With the Jedi Council so blind, there was never any hope that he could properly send Charles a transmission. It would have been as good as an admission of attachment, and then where would they have been?  
  
“Oh—by the Force, Charles!”  
  
Shaking or not, rattled or not, Charles isn’t to be underestimated, and he’s as relentless now in his movements as he ever has been. Their wedding night—the shock of realizing that Charles was no virginal piece of purity, but a man who’d had needs that had been satisfied elsewhere before he’d married Erik: recalling Charles’s dalliances will never be pleasant, but the rewards of his experiences had been a special kind of fruitful, especially when Erik had so little experience himself. Enough to be getting on with—a few fumbled handjobs, one enthusiastic blowjob from a fellow padawan—but Charles had by far been the more sexually educated of the two of them.  
  
To the Nine Corellian Hells with those who think that a man who bottoms must automatically be submissive: Charles has always known what he wants in bed, and he’s surprisingly pushy about getting it.  
  
That’s a pretty good explanation for why he’s currently poised over Erik’s groin, mouthing at the head of his cock, having yanked Erik’s leggings down. On anyone else, the look would be absurd: face obscured by the flaps of Erik’s tunics as they hang over the top of his head, Charles having neglected to take the time to bother stripping either of them fully; hands splayed wide on Erik’s hips; and setting the fabric to fluttering every so often when Charles changes his angle.  
  
Knowing it’s _Charles_ pushing him up against a conference table, essentially demanding to go down on him—it’s light-years past fantastic. That mouth—and Charles’ skill with his tongue—  
  
 _[Not going to last]_ he manages to push through toward Charles before he gives in and arches his hips, groaning up through his throat and tossing his head back as Charles swallows him down.  
  
 _[Then you should have bloody well come home sooner, shouldn’t you?]_  
  
Oh. Prissy—never a good sign. Charles is irritated and twisted up and probably as sexually frustrated as Erik himself is, since Charles only ever takes a tone like that when he’s thoroughly displeased about something that won’t make for good lecture material. Ethics, politics—let him rage and shout, but being denied sex for months because his husband was half-way across the galaxy is a topic that he judges as too petty to fit nicely into a lecture.  
  
And so he resorts to this instead.  
  
Spectacularly flawed, his husband. And all the more perfect for it.  
  
 _[I’m here **now** , and, frankly, I’d rather have you concentrating on sucking my cock than on haranguing me for something you know I have no control over. Get to it.]_  
  
One quick tug on Charles’ hair—when had he reached down to grip his hair?—sets Charles to sucking, and though it’s probably only rampant imagination, it feels suspiciously like Charles curves his lips up into a smile around his mouthful. _[As you say, then, love. But you’ll owe me later.]_  
  
 _[I’d be disappointed if you didn’t make me pay up—]_ Oh, _kriff_. Throat muscles. Swallowing. _Kriff, kriff, kriff_ —  
  
All that noise, Charles moaning in his head, and the fluttering of muscles against his cock. So many months. This is— _too good_.  
  
He comes, hands tangled in Charles’ hair, and with Charles’ name on his lips. It’s nothing short of a miracle that he doesn’t cry out loud enough to draw attention from the world outside the doors. What a sight that would be: senators rushing in to see who’s being murdered, and then to find him being thoroughly taken apart by his husband. Oh, thank the Force for thick walls.  
  
 _[Actually, that’s me casting a shield around the room: we’ve already had several people approach with the intent of investigating your noises, but the moment they touch the door, they all remember that they’re urgently needed elsewhere.]_  
  
He married a genius. No two ways about it. Better yet, a genius with the kind of mouth that would put professional escorts out of business. After that—he can’t bother to get his elbows under him, and, here he is, lying on the table, staring up at the ceiling, and trying to snatch a few breaths. Incredible.  
  
 _[Nice of you to think so, love. Now: if you’d return the favor?]_  
  
Oh, gladly. If Charles would just—ah, yes, there he goes, tugging open his own trousers and straddling Erik’s chest, bracing his hands down on Erik’s shoulders, and waiting expectantly with a half-cocked grin that suits him frighteningly well, especially with those now-swollen lips.  
  
Grinning, Charles reaches out, cupping Erik’s face with his right hand and stroking at it with his fingertips. It’s almost instinct by this point to turn his face, to kiss at Charles’ hand, mouthing at the pads of his fingers both with tongue and lips.  
  
It achieves the desired effect: Charles sighs happily and, with one hand still braced on Erik’s shoulder, closes his eyes. He leans back, arching his neck and waiting, mind buzzing expectantly.  
  
When Erik actually reaches out and wraps a hand around him, both their minds spark with delight.  
  
There’s nothing quite like being appreciated. So good to be home, where people know his worth.  
  
 _[You aren’t proving your worth right_ now _. Looking at it isn’t sucking it.]_  
  
Oh? In that case: snorting out a laugh, he guides Charles cock to his mouth and swallows it down, taking extra care to ripple the muscles of his throat against it. There’s a moment of resistance when the head of Charles’ cock hits the back of his throat, but he swallows, and it fits down with only a little eye-watering mess.  
  
So what if he doesn’t have the same kind of impressive sex resume that Charles does? He’s had plenty of practice since then—practice his husband has enjoyed very much—and let it just be said for the record that he is now nothing short of spectacular at oral sex.  
  
 _[Thinking—oh, Force, don’t stop—highly of yourself, aren’t you?]_  
  
And clearly not doing his job if Charles can garble together anything resembling coherence.  
  
Time to change that: one good swallow, then another, and a push of his tongue up on the bottom of Charles’ cock, hands on Charles’ ass to hold him steady—  
  
“Oh, bloody hells, _Erik_!”  
  
 _Much_ better.  
  
Digging his fingers into Charles’ buttocks, he drags him down further, swallowing and swallowing until Charles is spasming against his hold, pressing down to the root and—what’s a little eye-watering, in the scheme of things? A sore throat—nothing of consequence. Driving his husband wild is compensation enough.  
  
Charles comes with a bitten off cry, shooting down his throat. There’s nothing to taste until Charles pulls out right at the end, gasping out strangled syllables and dribbling the last of his orgasm out over Erik’s tongue and the edge of his mouth.  
  
The sound that he makes, right there at the end, is worth every day he had to wait before he heard Charles make it again.  
  
The table jolts when Charles drops to the side, landing on his hip and elbow before flipping over onto his back, one arm coming up to drape over his eyes. Absolutely stunning: Charles looks best in the morning light, when the sun is just stealing in through the windows, but, even under artificial light, he’s still a picture of languid debauchery, chest heaving in the aftermath of his orgasm.  
  
Too bad they can’t stay here indefinitely—though, maybe not so bad after all. Getting Charles into an actual bed has a certain appeal—quite an extensive appeal, actually. Hmm, yes, they might as well get moving: one quick swallow takes care of the last of the cum in his mouth—wiping off the trickle at the side of his mouth too—and if they straighten their clothes, they ought to be presentable enough for the trip back to Charles’ apartment.  
  
The apartment. Where the babies will be.  
  
The babies.  
  
Wanda and Pietro. It’s been months. They’ve probably grown so much, his babies. Does Wanda still have her tufts of red hair that make her look like she has a mini version of his own haircut, when he’s left it a bit too long? And does Pietro still appear as though he’s had the tip of his head dipped in silver?  
  
“Wanda’s hair is longer than it was, but Pietro is much the same: I gave him a haircut.”  
  
Someone has clawed his way back to coherence, then. Hmm, too quickly. Charles should have been out for much longer. They’ll have to work on that later.  
  
“Oh, shut it, you. I’m motivated. I want to go home and have the benefit of getting you in an actual bed. And the babies will want to see you.”  
  
“Far be it from me to stifle your wishes.” Grinning—though it quickly turns to a groan when he moves—he pulls himself up into a sitting position and buttons up. Has it always been this difficult to get moving after orgasm? He must be getting old, or else he hasn’t had a leave in far too long and really could use the rest, and his body is making that known.  
  
“The latter. Now help me up.”  
  
As if he’d ever ignore a command like that in light of where they’re headed. Back for a half hour and already banished to the sofa? No, thank-you. And, honestly, Charles should have been his commanding officer: he moves a lot more quickly for Charles than he ever did for Logan.  
  
“Thank you,” Charles says once he’s grasped Erik’s hand and righted himself. He runs a cursory hand through his own hair before turning to Erik and, with a slight frown that crinkles up his forehead, begins smoothing out the line of Erik’s tunic over his shoulders. Once satisfied with that, he skims his hands down to Erik’s belt, straitening it—and lingering a fraction too long for it to be quite innocent.  
  
Force knows Charles is an excellent actor when he’d like to be, but this—it’s blatantly obvious that this was never about clothes.  
  
“Not entirely,” Charles agrees with a wicked grin, arching up to press a kiss to the corner of Erik’s lips. “Sorry?”  
  
The temptation to deepen that kiss is too much. No surprise there. After months with only his hand for company, it’s a miracle he can stop touching Charles at all. “No you’re not.”  
  
That grin, if anything, gets _brighter_. “No. I’m not.”  
  
Obviously. Taking Charles’ hand, he tugs him toward the door. Charles will need to apply a judicious use of telepathy if they have any hope of fooling anyone in the vicinity into thinking they’ve only been having a normal chat. “Home, then?”  
  
“I should think so. But don’t you have to debrief?”  
  
“Raven can do the basics: I’ll give them my account tomorrow.”  
  
Another wide, full-blown smile that starts off the heat pooling in Erik’s stomach. Ridiculous: he _just_ got off. And, yet, there’s still a very real possibility they won’t make it back to the bed before a second round initiates itself. Hmm. A nice problem to have, all things considered.  
  
“Come along, husband,” Charles quips, playfully tugging at Erik’s hand before, with clear reluctance, he untangles his fingers from Erik’s and heads off for the door.  
  
Though the temperature of the room is stringently climate controlled, the chill that washes over Erik’s hand doesn’t fade easily with the passing seconds. Clenching it doesn’t help, and, rather than giving in entirely, he reaches out to tug at the back of Charles’ jacket before he can palm the door open.  
  
Where before there was gaiety, it’s been replaced with a solemnity tinged with sadness that, in a perfect world, would never touch Charles’ face. “Someday, darling,” Charles murmurs, leaning up for one last kiss, “we won’t have to hide.”  
  
Someday, yes. But not today. And, so, not soon enough. They shouldn’t have to hide. They _shouldn’t_ , but they _do._  
  
“I’d move galaxies to stop us from having to hide what we really are.”  
  
The left side of Charles’ mouth tugs upward, but it’s still melancholy, and—oh, for the love of—the door isn’t open yet, and one more kiss won’t hurt, if only to kiss that expression away. The sadness—he doesn’t want Charles to be sad. That the world is making him feel like that—well, _kriff_ the world. It’s never done much good for Erik anyway.  
  
At the mere suggestion of further intimacy, Charles presses up into the kiss, sweet and open, and smoothes his fingers through the strands of Erik’s hair. Predictable, in a way: Charles always takes to petting him when he’s trying to weed out that anger.  
  
Unfortunately, if, as usual, Charles intended that to damp down on the rising bitterness, he’s sorely mistaken: when they break apart, the conviction that was already simmering has heated up to a boil. “Someday, Charles, we’ll make things how we want them to be.”  
  
But all he gets from that is a sad little smile. “Erik, love, you can’t bend the galaxy to your will.”  
  
For Charles he could. Some days, he’s sure that, for Charles, he just _might_.  
  
Never does he believe that more than when he sees Charles brush the issue aside—because that’s all he _can_ do—and purposely don a mask of happiness. Bright and brilliant—but he’s always said that about Charles, and it isn’t even that the emotions aren’t real—only that there are others that continue to lurk underneath, ready to break through the brittle coating of content that Charles has forced himself to wear.  
  
Because, honestly, that’s the crux of it: Charles is sad. Deep down, where he thinks even Erik can’t see—and how very wrong he is to think that—he wants more. Wants to be able to talk about his husband in public, wants this war to end, wants Erik to be able to stay at home with him and the babies for more than a few weeks at a time.  
  
Charles may smile, but he recognizes the current impossibility of all those things he craves, and it’s taking a toll on him.  
  
Damned Jedi Council and the tenets of the Order… This war is stretching on and on, with no end in sight, and all they can do is spout platitudes and ignore how fractured the Force is becoming, the strange things—the mutations—it’s causing in so many baseline sentients. The Jedi Order as it is simply isn’t practical anymore: it’s outdated, and still they keep on as they are, causing harm with their bullheadedness. Causing harm to people like Charles….  
  
And that’s what really matters. Hang the rest of the world: that they are injuring _Charles_ is the most important thing of all.  
  
“Enough of this,” Charles tells him, dropping his hand to Erik’s shoulder. At least the smile seems a bit more genuine now. “I want to go home and show you the babies, have you help me put them to bed, and then I want to spend a very long time with you, first in the bath, and then in the bed, and, later, if we’re feeling adventurous, on just about any other surface that can hold us….”  
  
“A noble plan, Senator.” One last kiss, to tide them both over for the journey—and Charles accepts it willingly. As if there were any question that he would.  
  
Finally, though, he pushes Erik away, and, this time, he actually succeeds in palming the door open.  
  
That’s all it takes. Only the opening of the door, and they are no longer Charles and Erik, but Jedi Knight Erik Lehnsherr and Senator Charles Xavier. Not married, not intimate, but, at best, friends, and, if the Jedi Order had its way, only colleagues.  
  
It sends a sluice of ice down through Erik’s veins.  
  
No, it won’t be this way forever. The Jedi may not see that they need to change, but, by the Force, if they won’t see it on their own, then Erik will find some way around that. Charles will have what he needs. Things will change.  
  
They _will_ , even if Erik has to be the one to change them.


End file.
